


The Lost Art of Keeping a Secret

by TheSummoningDark



Category: Dishonored (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Low Chaos (Dishonored), On Hiatus, Plothole Fill, Post-Low Chaos Ending, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-19
Updated: 2014-02-19
Packaged: 2018-01-13 02:31:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1209469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSummoningDark/pseuds/TheSummoningDark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Emily is safe, the Lord Regent defeated, but the next few steps to get her to the throne will not be easy ones. Corvo is still a wanted man, and his work is far from over.</p><p>[On indefinite hiatus]</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lost Art of Keeping a Secret

**Author's Note:**

> A fic brought on by the realisation that other than having found Emily, the loss of the Loyalist Conspiracy means that Corvo actually ends a Low Chaos run in a worse position than he was in after breaking out of Coldridge. We know it all works out in the end, of course, but the how...? That seems likely to be a little more complicated.

Captain Geoff Curnow of the Dunwall City Watch was not having a good week.

Of course that said, it was hard to think of a week in the last six months that _had_ been a good one. The city was suffering, and as Captain of the Watch, a significant amount of responsibility for that fell on his shoulders. But still, he didn't think any single week had been quite as much of an unmitigated disaster as this one.

If he'd been told a few short days ago that the traitor who'd assassinated an Empress slipping out of Coldridge Prison like a Void-damned _ghost_ on the eve of his execution would be the least of his problems this week, he would have scoffed. But there it was. He had riots in the streets and public figures vanishing left right and centre, and a newly minted Lord Regent unhelpfully holed up on Kingsparrow Island rather than displaying any sort of leadership.

It was not a good time to be Captain of the Watch.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a decent night's sleep. It was long past the time he should have been home, and yet here he was, once again slogging through the mounds of reports littering in his desk. Gang fights in Drapers Ward, riots in the Distillery District, more Outsider shrines found in the sewers, still no progress on the investigation of Esma Boyle's disappearance, still no progress on...anything, really. And then, abruptly, his day got worse.

There was no warning: not a whisper of a breeze, not the creak of a floorboard. Just the sudden sense of a _presence_ directly behind him. Reflexively he reached for his sword, only to find that his hand grasped empty air, and that was all he had time to do before the edge of a blade lightly touched the side of his neck and he froze.

"Don't do anything foolish," a voice behind him said quietly. Male, slightly muffled. Hint of an accent; just enough to mark the owner as not native to Gristol, but not quite enough to give much indication as to where he might be from. "I'd rather not have to hurt you."

"I'd rather not have to be hurt," he replied evenly. There was a soft huff from behind him - a sigh or a laugh, it was hard to tell - and the light pressure of the blade lifted away from his skin. His unexpected guest moved into his line of sight on utterly soundless feet, and Geoff Curnow found himself staring into the grotesque skull-like visage of the most wanted man in the city.

The masked felon, as people had rather unimaginatively taken to calling him, was not a large man. It made sense, based on the evidence. After all, he seemed to rely heavily on stealth; they'd only known of his involvement in Sokolov's disappearance from the garbled account of a guard who'd been found with an empty tranquiliser dart in his neck, and similarly, it was only the testimony of the former Lord Regent's master of propaganda which had alerted them to his role in _that_ fiasco.

But still. For a masked shade who'd struck fear into the hearts of most of the city, Geoff had expected someone with a little more meat on his bones. Under that bulky coat Dunwall's most wanted looked more than a little underfed.

"I expected you to be taller," he found himself saying. It was probably an extremely stupid thing to be saying under the circumstances, but gallows humour was more or less the only thing that had kept him sane over the past six months, and he'd be damned if he gave it up now over a tiny matter like his probable impending death.

The mask shifted slightly, and he'd swear the man behind it sounded almost amused as he replied, "I'm sorry to disappoint."

"I'm sure I'll get over it." Even as his mouth responded automatically, he was regarding the other man with an assessing gaze. There was something strangely familiar about the way he moved, but the thought seemed to slide away any time he tried to get a grip on it. "So to what do I owe the honour?" Perhaps if he kept him talking it would give him a chance to pin down that nagging sense of recognition lurking just below the surface of his subconscious.

A pause; the mask tilted slightly, considering. "You have no reason to trust me on this, but I'm not here to kill you," was the eventual reply. "I need your help. And believe it or not, you need mine."

"You're right. I do find that hard to believe."

"Perhaps a gesture of good faith then?" With a neat flick of his wrist, he tossed the purloined sword down on the desk between them. It gave a muted thump and rustle as its landing stirred the abundance of paperwork carpeting the desk. A moment later it was joined by a second sword, a pistol clearly lifted from some unfortunate watchman, and a small but elaborate crossbow.

Geoff eyed him warily. "Give me one good reason why I should listen to you."

"Because you're an unarmed watchman alone in a room with the most wanted man in the city?" the masked man suggested lightly, settling into the lone chair one the other side of the desk. Geoff's eyes flickered downward, and though he'd intended to pointedly eye the pile of _both_ their discarded weapons on the no man's land that was the desk, on the way his gaze caught on the peculiar tattoo on the back of his visitor's hand.

He didn't know a great deal about witchcraft; just enough to recognise a situation he should be passing off onto the Overseers, really. But he recognised the mark of the Outsider when he saw it. There had been rumours going around about the masked felon using black magic. Geoff hadn't put much stock in it. Just shaken guardsmen and overzealous Overseers trying to explain how the man had slipped past them like a ghost.

But...well, you had to wonder. He was damn sure there was no way to get into his office unseen by any conventional means.

In the end though it didn't make all that much of a difference. Geoff straightened and regarded him impassively, and after a moment the other man shook his head. "No, I didn't really imagine that would move you. I have a better reason though." There was a pregnant silence. "I think you know I saved your life that night in Campbell's office."

Geoff's shoulders sagged slightly, and he sighed. Much as he would like to deny it, it was true. It was the only explanation of that whole messy incident that made the slightest bit of sense. The spilled glasses, Campbell's peculiar manner, the utter _chaos_ he'd woken to when he regained his senses. He didn't much like the thought of owing one of the most notorious criminals in the city anything, but it was an inescapable fact.

"I know," he replied eventually. "What I don't understand is _why_."

"Because your niece asked me to." Geoff's eyebrows shot skyward and he opened his mouth to speak, but before he could make so much as a sound, the next sentence drove all the breath from his body like a punch in the stomach; "But mostly because you and I once counted each other as friends."

Blinking in disbelief, he could only gape as everything - the accent, the mannerisms, the unbelievable coincidence of the timing - slotted together in his head. " _Corvo?_ "

The ghastly skull-shaped mask came away, freeing a fall of unruly dark hair longer than any self-respecting Gristolian man would wear it. The face was thinner and more worn than he remembered, and there were a few new scars, but there was no mistaking who it was.

Geoff swore. "Damn it all, I should have known."

"I was a little surprised you didn't figure it out, to be honest," Corvo replied, the corner of his mouth curling in a weary hint at a smile.

Relaxing a fraction, Geoff gave a small shrug. "Any number of people would have had good reason to want to see Campbell disgraced," he replied. "Especially given what we found in his hidden room afterward. And I certainly wasn't aware of you having anything in particular against Anton Sokolov."

"I don't. Actually he's been extremely helpful."

"I might have known." He narrowed his eyes. "Were you behind Esma Boyle's disappearance?"

"Yes. The Pendletons too, while we're on the topic, though a little less directly."

Geoff leaned back in his chair, rubbing the back of his neck and contemplating the ceiling as he feebly attempted to fit all this new information into his understanding of the events of the past week. One particular thought was emerging inexorably from the chaos, and though part of him wanted to shy away from it in shame, with a sigh he squared his shoulders and turned to face it.

"You've been innocent all along, haven't you?"

Maybe it was surprise or exhaustion, or simply not being used to guarding his expressions any more behind that mask, but the guilt and hurt and dreadful hope that chased each other across Corvo's face in the moment before he settled into weary resignation was painful to see. He rubbed a hand across his face, looking more tired than Geoff had ever seen him.

"I didn't believe it at first," Geoff said. The words seemed to stick in his throat even as they came tumbling out. "It seemed ridiculous to even suggest it. But everyone seemed so _certain_ , and as time went on...I began to wonder if maybe I just didn't want to believe it..."

His eyes were drawn again to the burn on Corvo's cheek, still livid and so newly healed it was barely even truly a scar yet, and he swallowed hard against the sick feeling of shame and guilt rising chokingly in the back of his throat. He'd overheard an audiograph of one of the interrogations once, arriving early to a meeting with the former Lord Regent. It wasn't even that long ago really, though the past week did feel like it might have lasted a lifetime.

Even believing the man a traitor fully deserving of his fate, it had still chilled him to the bone to hear the demands for a confession repeated with callous calm over Corvo's screams, the sizzle of hot irons and the unpleasantly meaty sound of metal meeting flesh in the background leaving far too much to the imagination. He could barely breathe around the weight of guilt in his chest. "I should have known better," he said hoarsely. "I should have known _you_ better. I am so, so sorry."

Corvo blinked slowly at him, looking more than a little confused by the apology. "I didn't think--" He shook his head and gave a wry smile. "I thought it was going to be a lot harder than that to convince you of anything."

Geoff considered him again with a different eye this time, taking in the worn and ragged state of the man, the unhealthy pallor, the tired lines of pain around his eyes. He was absolutely certain that he didn't like what he was looking at one bit. "You..." he said slowly. "You, the _two_ most wanted men in the city, have come to the captain of the city watch - who until about sixty seconds ago believed you to be a murdering traitor and is _still_ under orders to shoot you on sight, by the way - to ask for help."

"It sounds a little absurd when you say it like that," Corvo commented.

"What _happened_ to make you this desperate?" Before he'd even finished speaking he was already holding up a hand to forestall any response. "No, don't answer that. I think you'd better tell me everything. From the beginning."

"From the beginning?" Corvo sighed. "It's a long story."

"I'll settle for an abridged version."

"Fine." He leaned forward in the chair, elbows resting on his knees and hands clasped in front of him. The thumb of his right hand traced the sigil on the back of the other in what appeared to be an unconscious nervous tic. "The Empress was murdered by assassins hired by Burrows. Who was also responsible for the plague, as it turns out. I suppose you heard that part."

"I did, yes."

"The ironic part is, I wasn't even supposed to be there." He gave a thin smile utterly devoid of mirth. "Daud was extremely irritated at Burrows about that. Several of his men came home with nasty injuries."

"Daud?"

"I'll get there. Anyway, you know the next part: I was arrested and thrown in Coldridge, where I spent the next six months. Emily was kidnapped. She was being held by the Pendletons, at the Golden Cat of all places. Apparently Burrows planned to produce her and use her as a puppet while he ruled from behind the throne. Anyway, about...a week ago?" He sounded mildly surprised about how rapidly events had moved. Geoff wholly sympathised. "...the night before I was to be executed, Havelock arranged to have me broken out of prison."

"Havelock?" Geoff demanded, not caring that he was interrupting. "As in Admiral Havelock? _Lord Regent_ Havelock, who is currently holed up on Kingsparrow Isle?"

" _Former_ Lord Regent Havelock," Corvo corrected. "Who is currently tied up in a basement in the Distillery District, under the watchful eye of someone who owes me a favour. The Lighthouse couldn't keep me out."

"What the-! When did this happen?"

"About two hours ago. But I'm getting ahead of myself." He cleared his throat, hiding a what might have been a smirk behind his hand. Geoff would have sworn the bastard was enjoying himself. "Havelock and some others were working to depose Burrows and restore Emily to the throne. Supposedly, anyway. Perhaps they started out with selfless motives, but the prospect of replacing Burrows proved too much for their rather feeble moral fibre. After I exposed Burrows for the rodent he was, they decided I wasn't useful to them any more and had me poisoned."

Corvo ran a hand through his hair, making no discernable difference to its state of disarray, and squinted thoughtfully at his boots. "I'm a little hazy on what happened next, for obvious reasons. As far as I remember, I think I was left for dead in the Flooded District. I was picked up by Daud's men - the assassins who were hired to kill the Empress." 

His eyes went distant for a moment. Geoff opened his mouth before thinking better of it and shutting it again. After a small pause Corvo seemed to shake himself. "What happened there isn't really relevant. I managed to get away, and once I found out where Havelock had gone, I went after him. Martin and Pendleton were already dead when I got there."

"So Havelock is a prisoner of your friend in the Distillery District. Don't think I don't know you're talking about Slackjaw, by the way." Geoff shook his head. "What about Emily?"

"She's somewhere safe. Callista is with her."

There was a long moment of silence. What a shambles. Of course if nothing else, it was good to hear that Callista was safe, but as for the rest-- "Am I right in thinking," Geoff said carefully, "That in that case, no-one is actually ruling the Empire right at this moment?"

"Ah- technically, I suppose. Yes." 

"...I hope you have a plan." After that, after everything else, it seemed ridiculous to imagine that he didn't.

"After a fashion," was the less than inspiring reply. Corvo grimaced slightly. "The last part was always going to be the hardest one. Havelock and Pendleton were handling the more...political aspects, but now..." He shook his head. 

"You said you needed my help," Geoff pointed out. "I'd assumed that meant you had some idea of _how_ I could help you."

Corvo straightened sightly, a glint of implacable determination in his eyes, and Geoff was abruptly reminded that for all that the situation might seem impossible, this man had spent every day of the last week dismissing the impossible as nothing. No-one had ever escaped Coldridge Prison, and yet he'd slipped past the guards like a shadow. No-one had caught so much as a glimpse of him. If not for the explosion, they might not even have know he was gone until it was time for the execution the next morning.

It was an impossible situation. But Geoff genuinely believed that if anyone could fix this, it was the man sitting across from him.

"Yes," Corvo replied. "Actually, I do."

\----------

Geoff shuffled the papers on his desk and made a conscious effort to look less tired and bewildered than he felt.

The window behind him was open to the cool evening breeze. He knew for a fact that there was nothing outside it but a forty foot sheer drop to the flagstones below, but Corvo hadn't seemed to consider this an issue when hopping off of the windowledge, and so Geoff had chosen not to question it. 

Standing at attention in front of his desk, gratifyingly looking even more exhausted than Geoff felt, was the watch officer in charge of the hunt for the man who'd climbed out of his Captain's office window not half an hour ago. Lt Sam Holloway was an intelligent young man of no noteworthy family, who - unlike many of the watch officers - had earned his commission on pure merit. There had been whispers, Geoff knew, that tasking him with tracking down and recapturing the former Lord Protector had been some sort of obscure punishment. It certainly wasn't an easy job. But there were few enough of those in the Watch these days, and he'd felt safe enough in entrusting the job to Holloway and then putting it to the back of his mind.

Of course that had been back when they'd assume that Corvo would act like a man with any form of common sense and lay low for a little while before fleeing the city entirely. More fool them.

Geoff sighed and rubbed a weary hand over his face. "Sit down, Holloway," he said, gesturing toward the recently vacated chair opposite him. "There's something I need to show you."

Holloway obeyed, relaxing a cautious fraction as he took the offered seat. "Has something happened, sir?"

"You're being relieved of your current assignment."

Something akin to relief flickered across Holloway's face for the merest fraction of a second before being replaced by deep suspicion. "Sir!" he protested, "I know we haven't made much progress so far, but with a little more time-"

"No, you misunderstand me," Geoff cut him off, raising a hand to forestall any further objections. "I've received some new intelligence." He lifted the bundle of letters Corvo had given him and passed them across to Holloway. "We've been wasting our time, Lieutenant."

Holloway - unsurprisingly, given their content - found it necessary to reread the series of letters twice before setting them down and staring in shock at his captain. "I never thought..."

"I know." Geoff shook his head. "Take a moment. It's a lot to get your head around." He rubbed at his jaw thoughtfully. "It's a possibility we should have considered, really, when it came out that Burrows was responsible for the Empress' murder. It was on his word that we arrested Corvo Attano in the first place, after all."

Holloway was silent for a time, thinking this over. "And this 'Daud'...?" he asked eventually, tapping the letter.

"The leader of a gang of assassins. That's all we know, at the moment." It was certainly all Corvo had been willing to tell him. When pressed he'd simply insisted that Daud had been taken care of, and refused to elaborate any further. "But first things first. I want all the Wanted posters taken down, and announcements put out that the price on Attano's head has been lifted. He may well know something we don't about all this, and it'll be easier to get a hold of him without the threat of execution hanging over him. And I think that with every other problem on our shoulders, we have better things to be doing than hunting down an innocent man, don't you?"

Holloway nodded crisply, straightening in his seat as though he wanted to snap to attention. "Yes sir."

"Is Markham outside?" 

"Yes sir. He was just arriving when you called me in."

"Good. Send him in on your way out."

"Yes sir."

\----------

It had been three days now, and Esma Boyle's determination was yet to waver.

The chimney, she'd reluctantly concluded on her first day here, was not wide enough to admit her. She'd kept working at loosening the grate though, in the hope that perhaps it would be heavy enough to crack that insipid cretin Brisby over the head with next time he came in to moon over her. The bars between her and the door remained an issue, of course, but they were an issue she would address when the time came. Perhaps if she pretended to capitulate to his pathetic longing she could lure him close enough.

He'd have to be an idiot to fall for it, of course, but fortunately that was exactly what he was. She didn't believe for a second that he'd had the wit to arrange this. He was a mere opportunist. Well, she could recognise an opportunity herself, and she would not hesitate when her chance came.

There was the sound of a key in the lock. Esma hastily wiped her soot-stained and blistered hands on her jacket - fortunately the black hid the grime rather well - and folded them in her lap as she sat on the edge of the bed, assuming a pose of dignified composure.

The figure that entered on silent feet when the door swung open...was not Brisby.

Something inside her went cold as she recognised the mask. Not a tasteless costume, she knew now, though it was too late for the knowledge to help. She might have reacted differently that night if she'd known it truly was the masked man who'd brought down Campbell and the Pendletons she was dealing with. Or then, perhaps not. She had few illusions about her own nature.

She wrinkled her nose and lifted her chin, her expression of lofty disdain not wavering. "I should have known you were working for Brisby all along."

The mask gave nothing away, but there was a hint of disgust in the voice of the man wearing it as he replied, "I certainly was not. We needed you out of the way, and Brisby was an alternative to killing you. A _temporary_ alternative. And one there's no longer any need for."

Esma narrowed her eyes. "Why should I believe you? You're the one who put me in here."

"And now I'm getting you out. Any objections?"

"Why?" It wasn't an objection, precisely, but it was a question she felt needed to be asked. Why go to all the trouble of drugging her and handing her over to Brisby only to come back for her a few short days later? It all seemed a little too good to be true. And it was not in her nature to be trusting.

The mask tilted slightly, and she had the sense of being given an assessing look. "I think we can help each other," he replied eventually. "If we're able to let what's in the past remain there."

"You _kidnapped_ me."

"And believe me, you've done much to harm me and mine too, though perhaps not so directly." The masked man shook his head. "You're a noblewoman. I'm sure you understand doing what needs to be done in the name of political expediency. Times change rapidly, and right now you're in a unique position to make the next few months a great deal easier on yourself, your family, and the city."

There was a long pause.

"...very well. I'll hear what you have to say." She paused, looked around, and added, "But not here. I will not spend a moment longer looking at these four walls than I absolutely have to."

"As you wish, Lady Boyle," the masked man replied dryly, giving a surprisingly courtly bow.

 

The house, while moderately well appointed, was hardly anything remarkable by the standards of the Estate District. More of a townhouse than a manor, really; certainly nothing even close to the quality of her own family home. The Brisbys were minor nobility at best. She'd thought them better off than _this_ , though.

The masked man had moved off through door: by the time she followed into what turned out to be the kitchens, he was poking idly through the shelves. 

"What are you doing?"

"Eating." He picked up and inspected a slightly sad and droopy-looking tyvian pear before replacing it on the shelf. "Make yourself at home."

"We're doing this here? What if someone comes in?"

"Brisby's unconscious upstairs. Do feel free to go and kick him a few times, it might make you feel better."

"What about the servants?"

"There aren't any. He was afraid they would grow curious about the locked basement."

"Hmph." Esma wrinkled her nose, sighed, and sat down on one of the wooden chairs ranged around the kitchen table. She folded her arms. "Fine. I'll have some of that bread then. And a pear, if there are any still fresh."

A pear sailed toward her in a neat arc; surprised, she reflexively raised a hand to catch it. It was firm and crisp and crunched satisfyingly when she bit into it. After days of whatever sad attempts at meals Brisby had been able to manage, it was very welcome.

"So. You mentioned a proposition," she said, crossing her legs and inspecting the juicy flesh of the pear critically. "If it's the same sort of proposition as I had for you last time...well, I won't be _wholly_ disappointed, but I had hoped for something a little more dramatic."

He gave an amused snort and set a platter of the aforementioned bread, cheese, and a few more pears down on the table between them. "With the greatest respect for your not inconsiderable charms, no. I did have something a little loftier in mind."

"How lovely. Well, don't keep me in suspense, darling."

In response he raised a hand to his mask, and with a sudden shock of fascination she realised he was about to remove it. She found herself leaning forward, curiosity getting the better of her. 

He set the mask down on the table and she pressed her lips together, momentarily lost for words.

"I'm not sure about the scar, dear," she said eventually, tone critical as she looked him over. "And really, you could stand to eat a little more. 'Skeletal' is not _in_ this season, for all some might claim the plague's made it all the rage."

"I'll be sure to bear that in mind," Corvo replied dryly, reaching out and taking a pear with one gloved hand.

"So, this proposition of yours, then..."

He gave a small shrug and bit into the pear. "I want Emily on the throne, without Burrows or Havelock or whoever might think to replace them manipulating her. You, I imagine, would like you and your family to have a cordial relationship with the newly crowned Empress, and for the role you played in supporting the man who had her mother murdered to be quietly forgotten. I think these are things we can help each other out with."

Esma considered this in silence for a while, industriously stripping the flesh from the pear in her hand. The fact of that matter was that she didn't know enough about the rapidly-changing situation in the city at the moment to make this decision. She'd had no news of anything for the past three days, and in the current state of chaos in Dunwall, three days was a long time to be out of the loop.

But she was smart enough to infer a few things. Removing Campbell, the Pendletons, Sokolov, her...those were the obvious steps of a plan the endgame of which could only be to go after Hiram. The fact that Corvo Attano was sitting across from her, alive and free, suggested that it was a plan which had been successful. And with that thought in mind...if Hiram's crimes had been exposed, she and her family were in a very precarious position indeed. Her relationship with the Lord Regent had been one of those poorly-kept secrets, known but never spoken of, that the aristocracy adored.

If she were to be free and back with her sisters, though, it would be easy enough to spread tactical rumours and misinformation, to play the part of the coerced victim for all it was worth. Perhaps they could even turn this to their advantage. "What exactly do you want from me?" she asked carefully.

"You have a great deal of influence at court," he replied. "I'll help you keep it, if you use it to ease the transition into Emily's reign."

"And how do you plan to do that while being the most wanted man in the city?" she asked sceptically.

"Oh, I'm not any more," Corvo said calmly, looking for all the world like he hadn't a single care. The bastard. "I paid Geoff Curnow a visit before I came here. The Watch is now in possession of evidence proving that I was falsely accused. Gossip being what it is, the whole city will know by morning."

Esma said back in her chair and gave him a speculative look. She'd misjudged him, she was forced to concede. She, like many others, had dismissed the role of the Lord Protector as one of dumb muscle; fundamentally no different from the bodyguards the nobles of the city employed. His abilities in combat were reknowned, of course, but she hadn't expected this level of strategic cunning.

"Do you intend to have the coronation go ahead as planned tomorrow?" Esma asked, absently tearing off a chunk of bread. She'd picked up on the news of the coronation in amongst Brisby's rambling, though he'd been irritatingly sparse with any information of real value.

"Yes. The smoother the transition, the better."

"I see." She took a bite, chewed, swallowed, and nodded decisively. "In that case, I'll need to talk to my sisters as soon as possible. We'll need to be ready to move before it becomes generally known that you've resumed your role as Lord Protector." An assumption, but one she felt safe in making. 

She pressed her hands together, expression thoughtful, and continued, "It would be best, I think, if the story told is that Hiram had me imprisoned because I had discovered that he'd had you falsely accused. Brisby is the only one other than us who knows any different, and he'll hardly speak up when doing so would incriminate himself. It explains away my disappearance quite neatly, and we both come out looking like saints, especially if you were the one to rescue me."

"It also ties us both to sticking to that story," Corvo observed. Esma smiled.

"I've been playing this game for a long time, darling. I'd love to take you at your word, of course, but I think this will work out better if we both have a little extra incentive to keep our end of the bargain. Don't you?"

"You have an extremely devious mind, Lady Boyle."

"Why thank you, darling. You're not so bad yourself. And please, call me Esma."


End file.
